Saturday, September 21, 2013

You are aware of your surroundings, mostly. It's a house, though one not entirely recognizable, yet pleasant, spacious, and inviting nonetheless. Inside, there is a gathering of sorts taking place, which is why you find yourself seated on a leather couch in a living room populated by a throng of people not quite ready to party but happily engaged with one another. You want to say that each of these folks is identifiable, which isn't the case, of course, for they are as familiar as someone you've seen at the supermarket more than once, but you wish it were true.

So you sit upon a leather couch in the middle of a unknown home full of unfamiliar people and amidst the lackluster music, chatter, drinks and jokes it becomes apparent that day has since progressed into night, but through a sizable window with curtains drawn you note that night does not equate to darkness, as the moon, visible and enlarged, bathes the world in a sickly shade of blue that can't quite be described so much as felt and what you feel is unwell.

What makes you feel especially uneasy is a man seated on a simple wooden chair directly facing you from a distance. Unlike everyone else, the man is dressed rather simply in faded jeans, ripped but not in the usual places. There are lengthy tears near the ankles and that is all. He is wearing a plain, white t-shirt atop an equally chalky, long-sleeved shirt with indecipherable cursive script that sprawls down each arm, written in the reddest of red hues. His arms, crossed, further obscure the text as the man stares at you, eyes mirthfully ablaze. You recognize him, yet this man isn't the one you know. Close, but not quite, though close enough.

The man's mouth opens and a sentence is uttered; between the myriad of conversations and spatial divide, his words remain a mystery. Since he is something akin to a man you know, you suggest that he speak up, to which he merely smiles. You then suggest that he cease letting things slide or, at the very least, learn to state what he means in no uncertain terms because obscurantism is way overrated. As you speak, his left eye begins to wiggle in its socket, bleeding profusely in the process. You state that he should work on his interpersonal skills and as you do, the man's right ear falls away from its proper place and finds a new home in his lap. Arms now unfolded, the man flicks the discarded flesh, propelling it to the carpet while the crowd remains oblivious to everything beyond its own devices.

The lettering on the man's sleeves has all but disappeared, indistinguishable from the ichor gushing forth and despite the unsightliness of his appearance or perhaps because of it, you tell him to stop acting as though friends are analogous to foes. The man, still smiling, plants a hand upon his face and between spindly fingers spread wide, gazes upon you with the eye left intact, the one so very, very blue. You shout that he needs to stop playing around and his hand pulls away, taking with it anything the hand once touched. Nose, lips, teeth and tissue; not so much off as out, for his face isn't being stripped, it's being stretched into something else, something snouty to match what he is quickly becoming.

You rise, as does he, but his eye now surveys the teeming crowd of unobservant partygoers before returning to you. A clawed hand lazily extends toward the person nearest him but before said claws reach their destination, you tell him to shut up because this is your dream, not his, and ain't nobody got time for that.

Show up to the party late, after dark. No one notices, nobody cares. Came to see what she was doing here; namely, in a dream that isn't hers. She tends to do that. Not unwanted, but perplexing. Perhaps there is no why. Still, peculiar. The plan remains, albeit reconfigured. Came for a different reason, actually. A dream is a dream and it serves a purpose. They always do.

She does not notice, at least not immediately. Wrapped up in surroundings, probably. Strange, as stated, because she normally displays keen senses regardless of the locale presented. Curious. The music, no. The people, no. The jokes, absolutely not. The situation, possibly. The moon, most likely. She is distracted, yes.

Feel like putting on a show, this time for two. Not adept at entertaining others, if only because most are incapable of appreciating pageantry. She might enjoy this, maybe.

Attention, achieved. She may ponder the meaning behind the torn jeans and cursive script, of which there is none until she establishes some. Hopefully.

"Stick around and catch sight of a spectacle not soon forgotten."

Her actions imply that the statement went unheard. She has something to say to the wrong person or, perhaps, in the wrong reality. Body falling apart, coming together; beauty personified. Ear lost, no big deal. Dream comes, flesh goes. Nobody notices, no one cares. Typical.

She wants someone to stop playing but this face is so itchy; so ready to burst; so psyched to consume. Friends and foes comment applicable to life, perhaps. This is not an atmosphere conductive to such concepts.

Sunday, September 08, 2013

The first adaption of a Thomas Harris novel, in this case Red Dragon. While Anthony Hopkins may not be present, there's more than enough of a young, non-beerbellied William Peterson to go around. (You wouldn't know it from looking at these pictures, folks, but trust me, he's in the film.)

Trivia
Readers might recognize the film's director, Michael Mann, from such movies as Collateral, The Last of the Mohicans, and Heat. Conversely, for those familiar with atrocious, kidney-punching cinema, he might be recognized as the director of The Keep.